


the harder the rain, honey, the sweeter the sun

by fathomless



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Smut, F/M, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Post-Season/Series 06, Some Fluff, the happy ending they deserve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:46:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23520286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fathomless/pseuds/fathomless
Summary: It’s simple. Kind of silly, really, that he feels the need to explain it as if this isn’t what they’ve done for almost as long as they’ve known each other. Clarke smiles. “Together, huh?”Bellamy’s hand reaches for hers, rough skin of his thumb rubbing against the back of it, eliciting sparks in a way it probably shouldn’t but that his touch always seems to. She grips his hand tighter in her own as he assures her, “Like everything else.”— As peace slowly begins to settle around them, they examine the scars left behind from their pasts, and wonder if maybe it isn't time to finally move forward.(Together, they heal.)
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 23
Kudos: 263





	the harder the rain, honey, the sweeter the sun

Her hands no longer drip the red of others’ tragic ends, shoulders do not ache with a burden so heavy she feels herself crumbling beneath it.

And yet _,_ she finds that her skin is still stained maroon no matter how many times she scrubs it raw and the memories of the choices she made piling on top of her are still enough to suffocate. Often, she has to remind herself to breathe, has trouble calming her nerves enough so that she is able to leave the confines of her home with only a single pocket knife settled heavy against her thigh. There is difficulty in believing that she is safe, that they’re finally, truly done fighting. Difficulty in believing that no one is out to get her, to drag her away from her loved ones. Or worse, to take her loved ones away from her.

Peace is strange.

It seems so fragile, the fear of disaster always looming overhead. The belief that any wrong movement, no matter how small, could make it all go away in an instant serving as a constant source of fear. Her mind is an abyss of harsh criticisms and distant voices asking questions she knows are only those driven by her own thoughts. A constant mantra of, _Why should you get to experience this when so many others never had the chance to?_

It’s all too often that she finds herself sitting against a tree on the outskirts of their compound, which almost seems to have risen overnight. They could have stayed in Sanctum, could have merged with their people despite the relationship that quickly became all too complicated. Yet, it was no surprise when they decided to start fresh a comfortable distance away from there, away from the memories of mind snatching and civilians too far brainwashed to see past the smiles their leaders sent their way.

Now, her hand grips tightly to the sketchbook in its grasp, the other finishing off finer details on the paper in front of her, rough bark of the tree digging into her back despite the layers of clothing between them. Her head leans forward, hair falling in a curtain around her, and in the distance, she can make out the sound of conversation that is no longer plagued by pain and worry, but instead punctuated with bouts of laughter.

Much closer than the other sounds, soil crunching beneath a familiar pair of footsteps causes her to smile. She sets aside her supplies and looks up to meet the pair of brown eyes already watching her, Bellamy’s mouth tilted up into a smile, too.

“Hey,” he starts, crouching down to take a seat in the dirt next to her, hand held out in her direction. “Hungry?”

She nods. “I could eat, yeah.”

It’s become a bit of a habit, him coming to sit with her, bringing a snack or leftovers from the previous meal for them to share. Sometimes she sketches while he sits in silence, and though she can’t seem to focus nearly as well in his proximity, she finds she doesn’t really mind when he watches, can’t bring herself to do anything but revel in his presence. Other times, they both sit in silence, but often they pass stories back and forth, memories from the six years they missed out on.

They talk about anything and everything in between, and when they run out of things to say, a lull in the conversation, they don’t feel the need to fix it. It’s somehow enough to sit in silence until the sun has gone down and they realize the others will be wondering where they are, forcing them out of the bubble they’ve found themselves in.

“Good, because I brought plenty.” He leans his head back against the tree, tilts it to the side so he can look at her. Gives her a pointed look. “Thought you could use it since you didn’t eat lunch today.”

She takes a breath and turns her head to look at the village, bustling in the distance. Shrugging, “I wasn’t hungry.”

“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t at least eat something.” He leans forward, elbows resting against bent knees as he considers her. Almost a whisper, “When was the last time you ate an actual meal, Clarke? Not one of those snacks that you try to pretend is enough. Days? Weeks?”

Clarke doesn’t say anything in response, simply nods in hopes that it’s sufficient enough in place of words. He doesn’t accept it, though, nudges her shoulder with his so she looks at him. “C’mon, since when do we keep secrets?”

“It’s been… a little while. I’m just not used to all of this, I guess. Not having to struggle.”

“All things considered, we have plenty of food. No one’s starving.” He pauses, thinking. “You don’t have to worry about everyone else anymore, Clarke. Take care of yourself for once.”

It’s nothing, really, but his words fall much heavier than she thinks they were likely meant to. She blinks in response, settling further against the rough bark of the tree as she takes them in, the realization that she doesn’t have hundreds of others to worry about anymore. That she can worry about herself, and yet, she finds she can’t really accept Bellamy’s words, because she knows him.

Knows the way he’s too similar to her, the way he looks after everyone else before taking himself into consideration. It’s quite hypocritical, really, the way they chastise one another for being too selfless while not being able to apply those criticisms to themselves.

“Bold of you to say,” she says, critical but not looking to argue with him. Merely wanting him to take care of himself, too. “Or do you think I haven’t noticed the way you’ve been skipping out on meals, too?”

To her surprise, he doesn’t argue back, doesn’t bristle in response the way he typically would. Instead, he raises an eyebrow, eyeing her before he nods, lips pursed in agreement. “Touché.” He breaks apart the piece of bread in his hand, likely close to stale and anything but flavorful, into two halves, holds the larger one out to her. “Which is why I say we make a deal.”

Her fingers brush his ever so slightly as she takes the bread from him, crumbs falling onto the forest floor beneath them. “What might that be?”

“We aren’t very good at taking care of ourselves, are we?”

“Clearly not, no.”

“Let’s make sure we take care of each other, then.” He says, easy. “You take care of yourself, and I’ll take care of myself, too.”

It’s simple. Kind of silly, really, that he feels the need to explain it as if this isn’t what they’ve done for almost as long as they’ve known each other. Clarke smiles. “Together, huh?”

Bellamy’s hand reaches for hers, rough skin of his thumb rubbing against the back of it, eliciting sparks in a way it probably shouldn’t but that his touch always seems to. She grips his hand tighter in her own as he assures her, “Like everything else.”

Soft, she responds, “I like the sound of that,” and it seems to be no struggle for him to tell her, “Me too.”

She can feel the beat of her heart moving too rapidly as he watches her, the beginning of a smile on his lips, and she doesn’t want him to let go of her hand, wants to have this if only for a little while longer. Luckily, he doesn’t, instead opting to settle their hands against his thigh as he resituates himself. The sun is just beginning to fall below the horizon, bright pinks and orange, pastel shades of purple rippling across the sky above.

A sense of calm washes over her, and she’s unsure of whether it’s due to the sight or the fact that the man she loves is sitting next to her, seemingly without a care in the world. She figures she’s content with either answer.

She glances over at him, squeezes his hand in hers. He squeezes back.

They watch as the sun dips further below the horizon, and Bellamy jokes that it’s getting late, though they both know it isn’t. Clarke does know, however, that Madi will be getting home soon and will likely wonder where she is, though she’s sure it wouldn’t be hard for the girl to guess.

“We should probably be getting back then, shouldn’t we?” she asks, and wishes to hold onto him if only for a moment longer, though she knows she shouldn’t.

He hesitates before answering, “Yeah, we probably should,” and as they untangle their hands, she thinks maybe there was an unspoken ‘unfortunately’ that followed, but tries not to linger on it.

He stands and, unsurprisingly, helps her up after she gathers her things.

On the walk back, they make small talk in a way that feels almost unnatural for the two of them, their hands brushing against each other; and though she longs to slot her fingers between his yet again, she doesn’t do so.

Instead, in order to curb the longing, she puts an extra inch of distance between them, and they go their separate ways as they near the middle of the compound, a second’s long look sent in place of, “Goodnight.” She watches as he turns to walk in the opposite direction and tries not to linger on it too much as she heads in the direction of the home she shares with Madi, shoes making prints in the dirt path below her with each step she takes as she does.

When she wakes in the morning it’s to the sound of birds chirping in the distance, the walls around her bathed in a pale orange glow akin to that of firelight. She sinks back into the feathered pillow beneath her head and wipes at her eyes, tries to forgo the temptation to close them once again. She figures it’s still early, enough so that they’re still serving breakfast in the dining hall that sits in the center of the village they’ve constructed.

Her mind drifts to Bellamy’s words from yesterday, the determination behind his eyes, the wrinkle in the middle of his brow as he spoke. His hand in hers, skin rough with callouses yet gentle against her own in a way that was somehow foreign and yet familiar all at once. It’s enough to make her sit up, bones protesting each movement as she stands.

Madi’s already awake, sat at the makeshift table that sits in the middle of their main room, consisting of a living room and kitchen, both terms used loosely. Clarke smiles at the sight of her, dark hair sticking up in the back from sleep, pieces falling out of the braid she had put into the crown of her hair only yesterday afternoon. They cover her face, hiding it from view as she leans over the chess set Bellamy had managed to salvage prior to their exodus from Sanctum.

It’s old, clearly, some of the less important pieces missing. Others are cracked, plastic chipping, and yet despite its melancholic state and the knowledge that it has surely seen better days, Clarke thinks it may be one of her most prized possessions. If only because of the blush that had ever so slightly tinted the skin beneath the freckles of Bellamy’s cheeks, the way he had tried to downplay the grin pulling at the corners of his mouth as he gave it to her.

“Morning, Clarke,” Madi calls from her place at the table. Clarke smiles, ruffles the girl’s hair as she walks by. “I know you don’t usually eat breakfast, so I-”

“Actually,” Clarke interrupts, placing a hand on her shoulder. She knows Madi worries about her, and it’s sweet, really, but she doesn’t like the idea of being another chip on her daughter’s shoulders that are already fixed with too heavy of a load. “Thank you, really,” she pauses, taking a breath. “I think I may do something a little different this morning, though. You go have fun with your friends.”

_Friends._ It isn’t a mystery to Clarke as to how the girl has made them, no, but the fact that she has them, is able to enjoy time with them is enough to make her chest ache, her eyes prick with tears. Since removing the flame and finally choosing to put it to rest, the girl has been able to enjoy her surroundings in the way she was always meant to.

Convincing Madi to listen and go onward with her original plans for the day isn’t a difficult feat, all things considered. She walks out of the front door with newfound excitement on her face- and in her step- in a way Clarke hasn’t seen since it was only the two of them, a patch of green, and a broken radio used to send messages to the stars. Clarke swallows at the thought of the old radio, the hours upon hours she had spent talking to Bellamy as if he was sitting next to his own radio hundreds of miles in the sky above her, listening to her ramblings and nearly hysterical cries on the nights missing him became too much.

If only she had known then that none of her messages were being received.

The walk to the dining hall is short, the suns beating down upon her, nearly blinding whenever she glances up. A group of kids run around in a square of grass, full of carefree grins and high-pitched squealing typical of that age. Clarke lets her arms fall to her sides, one coming up to thumb at the strap of her backpack.

By the time she arrives, finds a place in line, and grabs a tray of what looks to be mostly edible food, most everyone is beginning to pack up. Tables are vacant, crumbs strewn about the surfaces. She nearly chooses to sit on her own when a familiar voice calls out to her, unexpected yet certainly not unwelcome.

“Clarke,” Emori calls, the others at the table looking up at the sound of her name. She begins to shrink under their gazes until she notices the slight smile gracing Raven’s face, the way Murphy leans against his elbow and waves his fingers, smug grin on his own. “Sit with us.”

She does, taking a seat at the end of the table, unconsciously putting space between herself and the others in the way that she finds she always seems to do.

Bellamy being absent from the table doesn’t go unnoticed by her, and she tries to rack her brain for an explanation, figures that maybe he decided to skip breakfast this morning or has even left already. She doesn’t bother asking, and neither explanation helps, her eyes drifting to the doorway on the other side of the room each time it audibly opens. They launch into quick-moving conversation around her, and she’s content with only joining in here and there, adding her own commentary whenever Jordan doesn’t understand a reference someone’s just made or Murphy’s jokes get a bit too crude.

Bellamy does show up, eventually, sending her a smile as he takes the seat across from her.

“Nice of you to join us,” she teases, trying to ignore the sight of Echo taking the seat next to him, always there to serve as a reminder of all that has changed between them. Clarke can’t seem to let it go, finds that there’s an air of selfishness that always follows her around when it comes to Bellamy, wanting him to love her in the same manner she loves him: loud, all consuming. Bitter, she thinks, ‘ _In the same way he loves her.’_

If she were wise, she would move on, realize that as the world moves on around her, she should do the same, and yet stubbornly she can’t bring herself to.

He picks up one of the berries on his tray and bites into it, considering her as he chews.

“I could say the same to you.”

“Yeah, well,” she shrugs. Swallowing back the emotion quickly building beneath her words, “They invited me.”

“Good,” he grins, and she bites at the inside of her lip to tamper down one of her own. “If they hadn’t, I would have.”

Soft, she responds, “I know you would have.”

He nods, clears his throat in response. A silent moment passes between them.

She listens as Jordan asks if anyone else has caught wind of the celebration happening soon soon in honor of their liberation from Sanctum, biting back a smile as she watches the way his face lights up with excitement as he speaks about it. Relief spreads through her at the sight, memories of the emptiness in his eyes, the blank expression on his face that became all too common following Delilah’s- or Priya’s, technically speaking- death that stayed present for far too long.

When she’s finished eating, mostly having picked around it aside from the oatmeal, Clarke excuses herself and heads for the waste bin near the doors. No sooner than she does so, Bellamy is behind her, chest brushing against her shoulder as he reaches to put his tray on top of the stack of already emptied ones, a shiver running down her spine in response to the unexpected touch.

“Any plans today?” he asks, deciding to walk with her. Echo isn’t anywhere to be seen, and she tries not to ponder on it for more than the few short seconds she allows herself to.

“Actually,” she reaches for the handle on the door, pushing it open. “I was planning on going out to scavenge a bit.” Bellamy nods, but glancing over, she sees him stiffen. “I haven’t been in a while, and there are these plants I found in the archive back in Sanctum that are apparently good for medicinal purposes.” She shrugs. “Figured they could be useful.”

He’s quiet, and she takes his silence as disapproval, quickly adds, “I’ll be fine, Bellamy. I’ll take a radio, check in once every hour or so. It’s not a big deal.” She tilts her head, tries not to smile at the way he furrows his brow.

“No, that’s not-” he takes a breath, seeming exasperated, a hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. “That’s not it, Clarke. I was actually wondering if you’d be interested in a partner?”

“A partner?”

“That’s what I said, yes.”

“You don’t have to, really. I’ll be fine on my own.”

“I know that,” he says. “Or, at least I’m trying to. I just thought maybe we could, I don’t know, spend the day together or something.”

“I don’t know,” she pretends to be unsure of the implications of his words whilst her heart does the opposite, beating rapidly against her ribcage in response. Even if she didn’t initially plan on anyone coming, didn’t want anyone else to accompany her, she finds this is yet again another situation in which he’s the exception. It comes as no surprise.

“C’mon, Clarke,” he puts an arm around her shoulders, her own coming to rest against his lower back, a reflex. “Don’t make me beg.”

_He is Bellamy, after all._

“Fine,” she smiles, finds it easy to lean her head against him for a short moment. “I wouldn’t dare put you through that.”

“I was hoping you'd say that,” he says, and well, she can’t really disagree.

Her bag is set heavy against her shoulders thirty minutes later as she waits, the two suns high in the sky above. She kicks absentmindedly at the dirt beneath her feet, dust slowly rising in response. A young boy and his mother walk by her, and he grins and waves in Clarke’s direction, at an age where he believes everyone is his friend. Clarke does the same, watching as his face lights up.

Bellamy arrives shortly after as she’s leaning against the fence, counting the seconds passing by. His own bag is slung over one shoulder, the jacket he was wearing earlier folded over his forearm.

“You ready?” he asks, tilting his head in the direction they’re heading. She nods, stepping away from the wood of the fence and readjusting the straps on her shoulders.

“Ready as can be.”

Humming in agreement, eyes narrowing as he looks over at her, he remarks, “From the looks of it, I think you may have packed everything you own in there.” He smirks, teasing, and reaches over to tap the top of her bag with a finger. “You sure you aren’t on the run or something?”

Looking up at him, she shrugs, biting her lip. “A lot can happen in a day.”

Bellamy smiles, eyes glinting in the sunlight as he reaches out to steady her over uneven terrain. “Yeah,” he murmurs, a hint of wonder in his tone. “You’re right.”

His touch still lingers on her shoulder as he steps away, and she wonders if he’s thinking the same as she.

Within a day, Clarke went from viewing Bellamy as a self-serving jackass with a knack for leading and a heart only big enough for his sister, to him becoming her partner, someone she needed to survive the hostile environment they’d been dropped into.

Within a day, she went from fighting a war with him to believing he had perished within a ring of fire, and that she was the reason why.

She went from believing he was dead, a heavy weight on top of her chest and a lump in her throat at the thought of it, to discovering he was alive, close enough to touch. (She ran to him.)

Days aren’t long, no, but that doesn’t lessen their importance.

They walk until the canopy of trees above are enough to shade them from the heat, and Clarke crouches down to pull a book from her bag, explaining what they’re looking for. The vegetation on Alpha is different from what they had grown so used to on Earth, and they find that they haven’t been able to adjust quite yet.

Clarke walks ahead of him, biting back a smile whenever he claims he’s found the right thing only to be so far off she isn’t sure he really paid attention when she was explaining its appearance only shortly prior. He grumbles in response, and she only smiles once she turns back around, knowing he would ask why, and she can’t really tell him she finds it cute. Not without embarrassing herself in the process, at least.

It’s fun, she finds, having him with her. Usually, when she’s gone before, she’s gone alone, humming to herself as she walked, making remarks here and there though she knew no one was there to listen. Listening to Bellamy gripe under his breath about the way all plants look the same to him, hearing him huff under his breath when she suggests he take a look at the picture again would be enough to annoy her if it were anyone else, but she enjoys it. Enjoys knowing he’s here with her.

“You didn’t have to come,” she tells him as they take a break, backs against the trunk of a fallen tree.

“I wanted to,” he says, almost defensive. Softly, he adds, “You don’t have to do everything by yourself. I’m here, Clarke. Even for the things that you don’t think matter.”

“I know you are.”

She nudges her foot against his, finding it easy to laugh when he does the same, slightly harder.

Eventually, they find what she was looking for, and as Bellamy cuts at the roots and other vegetation surrounding the plants they need, Clarke turns to open her bag. She sighs happily, doesn’t bother wondering whether it’s due to their trek through the woods finally paying off or the company she’s been in for most of the day.

Behind her, Bellamy swears quietly.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, unsure of whether she wants the answer as she looks back at him.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“That’s what I said, yes,” he assures her, voice slightly strained. Doubtful, she crouches in the soil next to him.

“Bell,” she whispers, reaching for his wrist and turning his hand over. He clenches it in response, but still she can see the dark red seeping between his fingers as he tightens his grip. Gently, she pries them apart, doesn’t care that she’s staining her own skin by touching his. “This doesn’t look like nothing.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and she looks up at him, sees the way his jaw clenches before he clarifies, “It’s nothing I can’t handle, then.”

“I don’t doubt that, but it still needs to at least be cleaned,” she tells him, gentle. There’s sweat on his brow from the blistering heat of midday, and she wants to reach out and wipe it, brush the too-long strands of hair back from his forehead. She swallows, doesn’t allow herself to indulge her own selfish wants. Inspecting the gash across his palm, she sighs. “That’s if it doesn’t need stitches.”

He lets out a breath at her words, frustrated with either himself or the situation at hand, she isn’t sure. In an effort to comfort him, she squeezes his shoulder, smiles reassuringly when he looks up to meet her gaze.

“It’s no big deal,” she whispers. “I might have something we can use to keep it covered until we get home.”

Bellamy nods, and reluctant, she lets go of him to search through her bag once again. He reaches for the knife lying at his side, red glistening against the blade, and she knows he’ll attempt to get back to cutting away at the foliage in front of him if she doesn’t say anything.

“Sit back for a minute,” she instructs him. “A little break won’t hurt.”

He looks as if he wants to argue, mouth opening and closing on a thought before he indulges her with, “Whatever you say.”

She finds a piece of cloth sufficient enough for wrapping around his hand, only to keep it covered until they get home and it can be properly looked at, crouching in front of him as she does so; her touch feather light in an effort to avoid hurting him. It’s not perfect, and she wishes she’d thought to bring something that could have worked as disinfectant in the case of something like this happening, but figures there isn’t any use in sulking over it now.

Tying off the fabric around his hand, she taps his leg with the edge of her boot. “All done.”

He looks up, curls falling onto his forehead. “What’s the prognosis, Doc?”

“I think you’ll live,” she says, reaching for his hand when she moves to sit next to him, tells herself she only does so to inspect her work. He doesn’t question it, and if he does, doesn’t say anything about it. Her fingers run over the cloth, tinted red on the underside. “I wasn’t kidding when I mentioned the fact that you might need stitches, though, don’t think you’re getting off that easily.”

“Bossy,” he remarks, under his breath, and she rolls her eyes. They shouldn’t sit here for long, need to get moving rather than wasting the day away, but she thinks that a short break probably won’t do them any harm. Her hand loosens its grip on Bellamy’s, but he doesn’t move, and she listens as he begins to rant about how foolish some of the new recruits for the guard they’re attempting to reestablish are, biting her lip to hold back a smile.

Later, when they arrive home, the sun is low in the sky and their legs are sore, Clarke’s cheeks a stinging red. Dinner has just finished, a group of teenagers loitering in the grass near the gates, and she thinks back to what it was like to be that age, how sometimes she wishes she could go back and prevent all of the hurt she’s caused since.

“Where are you going?” Bellamy asks as they come to a fork in the path and she continues onward, only looking back at the realization that he hasn’t done the same. His head tilts in confusion.

“With you to get your hand looked at by someone else?” she explains, as if it’s obvious. He frowns, shaking his head, and she already knows where this is going.

“You could look at it just fine, though,” he explains, timid in a way that he typically isn’t, usually firm in his words, unabashed. He shrugs, clarifies that he would _rather_ have her do it. That he doesn’t want someone that could otherwise be doing something actually important- _as if he isn’t,_ Clarke scoffs- bothering to care for him. Her heart does something funny in response to the pout playing on his lips, and she knows arguing with him won’t be of any use.

With a sigh, she turns on her heel, and though he doesn’t say anything, she knows he understands by the nearly triumphant grin he wears in response. When he falls into step with her, readjusting the strap on his shoulder, she smiles.

“You’re lucky I have a hard time saying no to you.”

Bellamy ponders her words for a second, worries his lip before he responds with an affirming hum. “Really?” she rolls her eyes in response, goodnaturedly. Always goodnaturedly when it comes to him these days, it seems. “News to me.”

It isn’t long before the place she and Madi have come to call home comes into view, and she nudges the door open.

“You can, uh,” she pauses, tries to think of where it would be best for this to take place, and settles on telling him, “set your stuff wherever, and maybe take a seat somewhere while I go grab my kit?”

It turns out, the kit isn’t exactly where she assumed it would be, and it’s a more difficult feat finding it than she anticipated, but it isn’t long before she’s found it and is heading back towards the main room to find Bellamy sat in one of the chairs at the table, jacket and boots shrugged off. He’s playing with the cloth around his hand, and the wrinkle between his brow that seems to be indented there is near gone for the time being, an element of peace about him that isn’t typically there.

She wishes he could be at peace, the weight of the world permanently banished from his shoulders, the smile she adores always present. Wishes they could both experience it, together for once, her chest aching with the hope that one day they’re able to get there.

“You ready?” she asks as she pulls out the chair next to him, scoots it close enough that her knees are touching his and she can easily reach for his hand.

“Do your worst,” he says, but the words don’t seem to have the same conviction with which he seemed to be hoping, dying away as she tucks her fingers under the cloth. The light is dim, not quite bright enough for her liking, as she leans in close, her skin brushing against his in gentle strokes as the fabric is unwound.

His gaze is heavy on her, unmistakable, eyes tracing each move she makes yet slowly reverting back to her face. She feels warm, cheeks heating with the realization, and finds that her voice isn’t nearly as strong as she would like for it to be when she looks up and asks, unsteady, “What?”

Her question isn’t unkind, but hesitant, rooted within the insecurities of their relationship and the way in which they always seem to be avoiding _something._ She swallows against the lump in her throat as he worries his lip and has the mind to look away for a moment before caressing her wrist. “You’re always taking care of me,” he says, low.

It isn’t quite a confession, but the weight of it is enough to steal her breath, make her pause in her movements, the heat of his touch against hers suddenly uncomfortable. When she looks up, the hand that isn’t encased in her own rubs at the back of his neck, and there’s a tint to his cheeks nearly sweet enough to make her smile.

“That’s only half of the story, I’m afraid.”

It’s quiet, then, a weighted silence.

She could let it continue, allow herself to sit here, watching him in a way she all too often isn’t given the chance to. Yet, she doesn’t, instead clearing her throat and pulling out the supplies she needs while trying to calm her racing heart.

He hisses in response to the alcohol she uses to clean the wound and she winces, responding with a gentle, “Sorry, I’m sorry,” repeating herself as she continues to work. He’s had worse, they both know, a combination of hunting trips and grounders gone awry. Yet, despite this, Clarke still finds herself apologizing, wanting to comfort him when his eyes narrow and jaw clenches in discomfort, her movements deft as she murmurs apologies and nearly squints to see under the light.

When she’s done, she lets out a breath.

“I take care of you, yeah,” she starts, pausing, “but you need to be more careful.”

“Clarke-”

“It wasn’t a big deal this time, I know, but next time- it could be worse, Bellamy. Just- please,” she whispers, voice soft, fragile almost. He softens, shoulders slouching as he leans closer, making her look at him.

“I will be,” he promises. “I’ll be careful.”

Standing, Clarke begins to reach for the kit on the table, but stops. Hit with a sudden burst of courage, the likely unreasonable worry she felt moments ago and the weight of the love she has for him moving her, she steps forward and reaches to brush his hair back. It’s easy, then, to lean in and press her lips against his forehead, tender. Thankful that he’s here, that despite all she’s lost, she’s somehow lucky enough to still have him by her side.

It’s short, her lips against his skin, and then she’s leaning back, hoping she hasn’t made a mistake when he stiffens in response. Except, he isn’t shocked, or disgusted, but instead watching her in silent awe.

Slow, as if afraid of her reaction, he pulls her into the space between his legs, arms wrapping around her waist in a way that’s somehow familiar yet simultaneously new all at once. Her own come to wrap around his shoulders, running through the curls at the back of his neck, and she can't help but breathe in sharply at the feel of him letting his head fall forward, resting against her stomach as he pulls her closer.

She thinks, despite their awkward positioning, she could stay like this, the moment between them holding within it a fragility that she doesn’t wish to break. Him pressed against her, warm, content, the two of them against a world plagued by uncertainty. She knows that staying here isn’t feasible, that she should pull away, but hugs him tighter before doing so.

Brushing his hair down, away from where it’s fallen into his face, the grip at her waist loosens.

“It’s late.” A quiet murmur echoing into the air between them, elaboration isn’t needed.

An ache runs through her as he loosens his grip on her, slowly, until it is no longer around her and instead, his focus is on lacing up his boots. When he’s done, jacket slung over one arm, he leaves her with a low, “Goodnight,” and a lingering touch to her shoulder. She listens as the door falls shut behind him and allows herself to take a seat in the chair he’s only just vacated.

Clarke sighs, finger tracing around a divot in the wood below her.

She wishes he could have stayed, that she could have justified asking him to not go, but knows that it isn’t the right time. Despite the number of reasons running rampant through her head telling her that it _is_ the right time, they’re overpowered by the ones telling her that letting him go was the right thing to do.

He’s still with Echo.

They’re only barely settled into their new home, their new responsibilities.

She has Madi to worry about, though she knows Madi is old enough now that she doesn’t really _have_ to worry, and that Madi would despise being used as an excuse in this instance. Clarke attempts to tell herself that she isn’t using her as an excuse, merely a reason, but knows that isn’t the truth.

When it comes to Bellamy, it seems as if they’ll always be two ships passing in the night, always close yet never quite close enough to be right. Her throat tightens at the thought, vision blurring with unshed tears enough to make her feel foolish.

With a sigh, she brings a hand up to wipe at her face, trying to pull herself together. The sun has set by now, and if she knows anything, it’s that Madi’s fallen asleep, lamp near her bed still lit.

Taking another breath, she stands and flicks off the one on the table in front of her, intent on heading to bed, herself. The kit used earlier sits untouched.

She tells herself she’ll put it away in the morning.

* * *

Sleep is fitful, dreams quickly evolving into nightmares plagued with death, familiar faces damning her. Screams for help, blood turning her vision red at the edges. When she wakes, a gasp on her lips, her skin sticks to the sheets, damp with sweat. Her eyes are quick to adjust to the pitch black of the room, and she knows without having to look that the moon is still high in the sky.

It’s a regular occurrence, has been for nearly a quarter of her life. A full night’s sleep is a rarity, most filled with wide eyes and interruptions. Madi wakes sometimes, and those nights, when Clarke is awoken with a scream forcing its way up her throat, Madi’s there, arms already tight around her. Whispers of reassurance falling from her lips as she gently hums a song Clarke used to hum to her, fingers weaving through her hair as she lay in Clarke’s lap near the campfire. The same nights Clarke would tell her stories of heroes she once knew, lingering on one in particular but never on herself.

Closing her eyes once again is foolish, Clarke knows, sleep now a lost cause as she sits up, blanket wrapped around her. She peeks into Madi’s room on the way down the hall, careful not to make any noise, and pauses by the front door to put her boots on, fumbling with the lace on one.

A breeze hits her as she steps outside, goosebumps forming on her arms. Normally, she would sit at the tree near the outskirts of the compound. Tonight she’s drawn inward, to the center of their setup, where a figure sits on a half-broken down bench, shoulders hunched, head buried in his hands. Clarke approaches him from behind, slow, and when she puts a hand on his shoulder, Bellamy flinches in response, caught off guard.

Turning to look at her, he relaxes, and hardly louder than the sound of the insects chirping in the distance, he asks, “You wanna sit?” She nods, accepting the invitation.

“Nightmare again?”

It isn’t the first time they’ve met, stars blanketing the night above them as they sit side by side with sleep hard to come by, inner thoughts enough to consume them.

“Always is.” There’s a beat of silence, both still groggy, trying to make sense of what horrors their minds have conjured this time.

“Me too,” he whispers, and when she merely hums in agreement, he lifts an arm, inviting her to slot herself beneath it. Smiling, she unfurls the blanket from around her shoulders, and as she moves closer, wraps it around his, too.

When he turns his head to look at her, amused, she tells him, meekly, “It’s cold.”

“It is, yeah,” he says. “Thanks, Clarke.” She revels in his heat, stomach fluttering in response to having him so close. The blanket does little to warm her in comparison. When he asks if she’s okay, she tells him she is, but she knows from her own response that when she asks him the same and he tells her there isn’t anything to worry about, that he isn’t telling the full truth. Neither was she, to be fair.

“Do you think we’ll ever be able to just,” she pauses, considering her next words. “I don’t know, move past it all?”

“My honest answer or what I think you’d rather hear?” When she gives him a pointed look, he continues, “No.” Quiet settles between them, and for a moment, she thinks he won’t continue, but then, he explains, “I think… what we did, the decisions we made? All of it, it’ll be a part of us no matter how hard we try to move past it.”

“That makes sense,” she agrees, thinking. “Maybe we just have to accept that it’s not something we’ll ever fully be able to get over, no matter how long we live here. No matter how peaceful it is.”

Her words settle into the air around them, heavy, coated in truth.

“I wish it was easier.”

“Me too,” she agrees, closing her eyes. There are so many things she wants to say to him, words she’s never said, too afraid to. Yet, she thinks that no amount or phrasing of words could possibly encompass how important he is to her. Still, she takes a chance, allows the words to fall from her lips, into uncertainty. “I’m glad you’re here,” she tells him. “That you’re with me now, that you’ve been with me for everything.”

He stiffens, and she can feel her breath catch in her chest before he opens his mouth, tells her, words carrying the grief she knows he still holds, “I haven’t been with you for everything, Clarke. Far from it.”

She sits upright. His shoulders are slumped, head turned away from her. Regret begins to seep in, knowing she can’t rewind the past few seconds, can’t tell herself to stay silent. Shaking her head, she breathes a quiet, “No, Bellamy-”

“I left you to die, moved on without holding out any hope that you were alive. I never _thought_ to consider the possibility that the nightblood worked, that you’d made it, and I-” he takes a shaky breath, “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, Clarke.” Eyes wide, pleading almost, he’s vulnerable in a way she thinks they’ve only ever been able to be with each other. “I think… I think, in a way, it broke me, and-”

Swallowing, she figures that maybe she has an idea of what his earlier nightmare was about, hoping that she’s wrong.

“Bellamy,” she whispers, trying to get his attention as he continues to speak, rambling now, no end in sight. When he doesn’t listen to her, she turns toward him, placing her hands on either side of his face. “You might not have been there physically, but you were still there,” she says, trying to keep her tone light, still unsure of if her words will help or only worsen the way he’s feeling. “Still with me in those minutes I would spend talking into that _godforsaken_ radio, sending messages that you never heard.

I told you before, that radio was what kept me sane all those years.” Her voice breaks, his brow furrowing in response. Against the side of his face, her thumbs rub, soothing. _“You_ kept me sane, Bellamy, and if you had stayed behind? You would’ve died, and I can’t-” she swallows, looking away from him in an effort to collect herself, failing. She feels bare, walls down, but it isn’t uncomfortable, doesn’t force her to shy away.

Firm, she tells him, “I never would have been able to handle that, okay? So don’t. Don’t blame yourself for leaving me, because we both know that I don’t blame you either.”

They sit in silence, eyes raking over each other, both pairs glistening with unshed tears that neither of them are content with allowing to fall. Until he says, simple, “We’re both here now, that’s all that matters, right?”

“Right.”

They don’t speak, after that.

Moon and stars still high in the sky, only slightly lower now, they choose to simply exist, side by side. They stay that way until the first of the two suns begin to rise- earlier than the single sunrise on Earth- just above the horizon, and around them, the first of their people begin to wake, preparing for their morning duties. If she could, she would stay here, with him, for as long as she possibly could. If she were to ask him, he would admit to feeling the same way, longing for simplicity.

Despite this, he admits what they’re both thinking, dreading. “We should probably head back,” and she knows he’s right, but the idea of separating from him whilst he heads back to the place he shares with Echo conjures up a sick feeling within her gut.

Her eyelids are beginning to droop, heavy with the lack of sleep, and she knows it’s unavoidable. Watching as he untangles himself from the blanket around his shoulders and bids her a smile and a soft, “Sleep tight,” she resigns herself to heading home, too.

It becomes a routine, of sorts, after that.

Often, they end up there, on a rusty bench in the middle of their compound, skin clammy and half-dressed. Usually they talk about what’s bothering them, able to find comfort in words and reassuring touches, but other times, they find it easier to say nothing.

_Clarke finds that no matter how they handle the situation, whether it be a few short minutes or a few- somehow even shorter- hours with him, it’s easy, afterwards, for sleep to find her._

* * *

She’s busier these days, it seems, whether her time be occupied by the seemingly constant hours she’s spent working in Medical, or Madi. It isn’t that she’s complaining, no, but it’s strange still, having a life outside of war and political issues, not having to narrowly escape death every time she turns around. In the hours between, she finds Bellamy, or he finds her, and though it isn’t perfect, it’s good. Great, even, in a way she almost doesn’t recognize.

The dining hall has mostly cleared out by now as Clarke picks at the bowl of oatmeal in front of her, finding it bland. Murphy, Emori, and Raven have only just left, having arrived before her, and Madi’s already headed to her lessons for the day. Octavia stopped by earlier, too, conversation between them stiff in the way it typically is, only lasting a few short minutes before she found the need to head out; therefore leaving Clarke alone, conversations flowing from the crowded tables around her.

She’s nearly finished by the time Bellamy slides into the seat across from her, his own bowl hitting the table enough to startle her.

“You okay?” he asks, though she doesn’t think she’s displaying any signs that she _isn’t_ okay, since she definitely is.

“I’m good, yeah,” and she means it.

There’s something off about him in the stiffness of his shoulders, the tight-lipped smile he gives her, lacking genuinity. He doesn’t seem sad. She’s become too familiar with his sadness, the way his grief manifests in slumped shoulders, tear-filled eyes. It isn’t that. Still, she doesn’t push, figuring that if he wants to share, he will.

Rather than pushing, she instead asks if he’s heard anything about the upcoming celebration, though she knows he has, at least in passing. A new Unity Day, of sorts.

Or that’s what she likes to think of it as.

“I guess they feel like we’ve gone long enough without another impending war that we can actually celebrate being able to… I don’t know, _live_ now,” she shrugs when he asks what, exactly, they’re celebrating.

He purses his lip, nodding. “Makes sense, in a way. We haven’t had much to celebrate up until now.”

“No,” she shakes her head, solemn. “We haven’t.”

They talk about the nuances of the party being planned, surprised when they’re able to laugh at it being the first celebration they’ve had to endure without Monty’s moonshine, unable to decide whether that’s a good thing. It’s when she notices he’s no longer paying attention to her, instead fidgeting with a thread pulled loose from the fabric of his shirt, that she feels the need to inquire about what clearly seems to be bothering him.

“I know you asked if I was okay earlier, but are you?” she starts, not in the smoothest of ways.

He looks up, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“Bellamy,” she sighs, refusing to let herself become irritated with him. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

He goes somber at her question, a stillness overcoming them. Letting out a long breath, he tells her, simple, “Echo and I broke up,” and she covers up the gasp on her lips with an ill-timed cough, hesitantly glancing back over at him once she’s straightened.

She thinks back to that day in the desert, the breath that halted in her chest at the sight of him running towards Echo, quick to embrace her, his lips meeting hers. The way she clung to Madi the slightest bit tighter, looking for a way to hold herself together for fear of falling apart. It was unfair of her, then, to feel disdain toward him for moving on, from what? He was never aware of her feelings, the love she had for him.

He’d fallen for someone else, and suddenly she had felt left out, forgotten.

Instinctively, she tells him, “I’m sorry, Bellamy,” except, selfishly, she isn’t. Still, there’s a part of her that despises the idea of him hurting, that wants to reach across the table and pull him into her arms. Instead, pushing away the bowl in front of her, appetite suddenly lost, she inquires, “How are you feeling? Do you want to talk about it?”

Before he can respond, she finds herself continuing, nervous. As if afraid her initial reaction wasn’t sincere enough, suddenly considering the possibility that he isn’t okay with the end of his relationship, she rambles, “If you wanted to, you could probably get her back, you could probably work things out-”

“Everything’s fine, Clarke,” he interrupts, and she deflates in relief, both for herself and for him. “I’m good.”

She can’t help but side-eye him, only a little. “Are you sure?”

Smirking, he asks, “Would I lie to you?”

She considers his words, unable to tamper down a grin of her own. “Yes, but I’d be able to see right through you. I know you too well,” she adds, and his smile widens in response.

“Exactly. I’m good, Clarke, don’t worry,” he assures her, and she takes his word for it this time, thinks they probably ask each other if they’re okay too often for it to be normal.

They spend the rest of their time talking about the ins and outs of the previous day and plans for the current one, sneaking bites of the food in front of them in between. When he’s nearly done, he points to the berries left in front of him and insists that she take them, though she lets him know she isn’t hungry. He thinks she should take them anyway, because _“If I’m not getting the nutrition, you should at least,”_ which leads to her insisting that’s why _he_ should eat them instead, both too stubborn for their own good.

When their hunger is sated and nearly everyone else has filed out, their own voices echoing throughout the large room, they find it time to make their exit, too. They don’t talk about it, or mention where they’re headed, but end up at the tree they’ve now dubbed theirs. Clarke pulls out the sketchbook she keeps with her once they get settled and flips to a new page, though she knows she won’t get much work done with him next to her, an all too welcome distraction.

“I saw Octavia earlier,” he says, breaking the silence as she begins making soft strokes against the paper. She stays silent, assuming he has more to say, and prepares herself to reach out to him, setting the book down in her lap. “She seems to be doing good. Better than she was, at least, not that I’ve actually talked to her.”

All things considered, Octavia wasn’t in the best of shape when Bellamy and the others retrieved her from the anomaly.

It hadn’t been an easy feat, and Clarke ached more with each passing day that Bellamy was gone, unable to follow him due to an unreasonable agreement between the two of them that she would stay and help out here, made following hours of arguments and what she knew were false reassurances on his part. She’d spent hours in the woods where he’d disappeared, sat on a fallen tree stump; waiting, hoping, not knowing. Until finally he came back, Octavia slumped in his arms, looking worse for wear and mumbling incoherences that no one seemed to be able to decipher.

Clarke hums in acknowledgement, hoping he’ll continue.

“I wish I knew how to talk to her,” he admits, voice thick. Clarke places a hand on his arm, scooting closer. “I want a relationship with her, you know? Something better than what we had before, but I think… I think, all things considered, we’re in an okay place,” he nods, as if assuring himself of the fact, and she does the same.

“You deserve that much,” she tells him, and thinks that maybe she’s crossing a line by saying what she does next, but continues regardless. “You deserve a relationship with her that isn’t built on pain and suffering, especially not your own. Not one where you feel responsible for her, or one where you take the blame for everything that goes wrong. Not like before.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “She’s my sister, Clarke, she always will be. She isn’t my responsibility anymore, though.” Quiet, with a hint of sorrow, “and I’m realizing that she never should’ve been.”

Clarke can see that he’s getting too far into his head, making himself upset with what-ifs and thoughts of memories long gone. Rather than delving further into his thoughts, she switches subjects to something lighter, knowing it’s what he needs right now, and mumbles “Sometimes with the attitude she has, I wish Madi wasn’t my responsibility, either.”

To her surprise, he actually laughs, a deep, throaty sound, and she can’t keep herself from grinning, suddenly feeling like she’s on top of the world.

“Oh, c’mon, she’s a good kid.” he says once he’s calmed down. Then, glancing over at her, “I’m proud of you.”

They shouldn’t land as heavy as they do, simplistic as they are, but she can feel heat rising to her cheeks in response to his words. Trying to deflect, she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, admits, “She likes having you around.” His mouth tilts upwards, slightly. “Octavia might’ve been her favorite from the stories I used to tell, but I think you’ve outshined her in person, in Madi’s eyes.” Quiet, she adds, “I don’t blame her.”

“Yeah, well…” he trails off, unsure of his next words, probably something self-deprecating, as usual. She doesn’t give him a chance to rethink them, instead continuing, courage suddenly igniting a fire within her. “I don’t understand how you don’t see it,” she whispers. When he tilts his head, she adds, “How _amazing_ you are. I just wish you could see yourself the way that I see you.”

She bites her lip, trying to keep from smiling, afraid it would be too much. Unable to resist, “I’m proud of you. Of who you always have been, who you’ve become.” Reiterating, “I’m proud of you, Bellamy.”

He opens his mouth on a thought, closes it again before opening it to tell her, a murmur against the wind blowing through the trees around them, “I want that for you, too.” Then, a moment later, “For you to see yourself the way that I do,” and Clarke tries not to think too heavily at the way it tugs on something deep within her, the love she feels for him dangerously all-consuming, now more than ever.

When the sky becomes gloomy, suns suddenly hiding behind the thick grey clouds, and the wind begins to pick up, Clarke turns to him. “Madi should be getting home…”

“Oh.” His eyes widen, frown etching itself into his features. “We should probably head back then, huh?”

“No, uh, well, yeah,” she stutters. “I just mean, you know, if you want to, you can come back home with me. It looks like it’s about to rain, so it isn’t like we can stay out here without getting soaked, and Madi should be getting home soon, so I just figured-”

He doesn’t let her finish her sentence, instead picking her sketchbook up from where it’s fallen against the dirt beneath them and folding it closed before handing it to her. “You don’t have to convince me.” He stands, offers her his hand once he straightens. “Let’s go, see if we can beat her there.”

She accepts his offer, allowing him to pull her upright, and ignores the way his chest brushes against her when he pulls a bit too hard, causing her to stumble the slightest bit. Once she’s steadied herself, “Sounds like a plan.”

_(Clarke tries not to think about the fact that he hasn’t let go of her hand by the time they start to walk back, but to be fair, she doesn’t let go either)._

Fortunately for them, they _do_ beat her there, just barely. Rain starts to fall by the time they make it down the path, thick drops slowly beating down on them, and she breathes a sigh of relief once they cross the threshold. Though they aren’t soaked quite enough to justify changing clothes, it’s enough that the fabric covering them is damp, uncomfortably clinging to their skin.

They’ve just shed their jackets and boots, about to sit when Madi comes barreling through the front door, clearly excited about something if the way she’s beaming is anything to go by.

“What’s gotten into you?” Clarke asks.

“Have you guys heard about the party? People were talking about it during lunch today, and it’s supposed to be _awesome,_ is what they said.”

“Yeah, we’ve heard about it.”

Clarke spares a glance over at Bellamy, already focused on her, before both turn back to Madi. Tentatively, so as not to upset her, he explains, “I don’t really think it’s meant for kids your age. It’s more for people closer to our age, from what I’ve heard.”

Near instantaneously, she deflates, and Clarke almost has the mind to worry before she’s straightening, a mischievous smirk playing at her lips. Turning to Bellamy, “In that case, are you going, Bellamy?” When he nods, hesitant, she blurts, “It’s supposed to be, what’s that word? Epic, I think?”

Amused, he crosses his arms over his chest, “Oh, that’s what they’re saying, huh?” Before he can add anything else, Clarke finds that Madi’s turned to her, expectant, and she hesitates, unsure of her answer. On one hand, she could go and keep Bellamy company, probably have fun while she’s at it, but on the other, the idea of going to a party after what transpired at the last event she attended makes her uneasy.

_“Clarke,”_ Madi whines, and she resists the urge to laugh until the girl remarks, “You never hang out with anyone aside from Bellamy.” Her eyes widen as she realizes what she’s said, and Bellamy raises a brow in surprise while Clarke isn’t sure exactly what to make of what she’s just been told by her daughter. Or, rather, accused of. Quick, Madi backtracks, “Sorry, Bellamy, you know I think you’re great.” Then, under her breath but loud enough to hear, “and we all know Clarke thinks you’re great.”

Clarke can’t stop her jaw from falling open as Bellamy laughs at the sight, Madi doing the same as he leans in to tease her, “Aww, am I your best friend, Clarke?” as if they don’t all know the answer is a resounding yes. Embarrassed, her cheeks are surely tinted pink.

Devoid of humor, “Everyone knows you’re my favorite,” she shrugs, tries to make it seem as if it’s no big deal despite the bounding pulse she would find if she were to press a finger to her neck.

Sobering, he straightens. “Well, then they know you’re my favorite, too.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I do, though. It’s the truth.”

Impatient, Madi interrupts with, “So, Bellamy, are you going? Clarke will only go if you do.”

“You see, the thing is, I’m only going if Clarke does,” he tilts his head to one shoulder, acting nonchalant, but Clarke knows he’s only doing it because he wants to make sure she goes, and it’s smart, really. Madi doesn’t seem to think so, groaning dramatically, but Clarke finds herself laughing yet again, and Bellamy, too.

It’s more than she’s laughed in a long time, shaking with it in a way that’s become foreign over the years, and when she looks, Bellamy’s doing the same, and then he’s leaning over, letting his head fall into the space between her neck and shoulder as he does. Clarke resists the urge to shiver at the feel of his breath against the exposed skin there, and puts her arm around him, pulling him closer.

Once they’ve calmed down, her hand carding through his thick curls as they sit, tangled together, Madi’s already walked away, clearly giving up on them. He pulls back, not enough to fully separate but enough to look at her. “What do you say, are we going?”

“I guess it looks like we are.”

They’re in agreement, then. Clarke glances down at him, feeling thankful.

His presence fills the space around her, strong and steady, and continues to in the days that follow, steadily weaving himself further into the intricacies of her life. Slowly, she notices his belongings beginning to find perch on counters and chairs, the wall by the door. His jacket sits, permanently it seems, on the back of a chair in the corner of her room after he loans it to her on a cold evening in which she forgets to wear her own. A book on the table in the main room that he leaves one night after she asks him to read to her, tired and wanting to hear his voice. His smell lingering on the knitted throw, snagged and worn, that lays across the back of the couch.

If it were anyone else, Clarke would find herself annoyed, but it’s not; and if she purposefully holds onto his jacket just a tad bit longer than she should, well, no one else has to know.

* * *

This time, they sit in the grass, a sheet spread out beneath them. Around them, children play, Madi involved in a game of tag with a group of kids her age. Banners made from the supplies they were able to bring from Sanctum are hung between lamp posts, unlit lanterns cast off to the side in waiting. Their people are excited, for once, finally able to revel in the joy of the upcoming occasion.

“Did you ever think we would get to live like this?” he asks, casting his book aside. It’s strange, the way they’ve picked up hobbies and daily routines, and can actually classify themselves as bored on slow days. Clarke still finds herself uneasy with it at times, still trying to adjust.

“No,” she shakes her head. “It just never seemed like we would. Every time we came close to it, Hell would find another way to break loose.”

“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” he murmurs, smirking. Clarke knows that, like herself, Bellamy’s struggling. Struggling to adjust, to feel useful. Despite wishing he wasn’t, she can’t help but feel a little less alone.

Eventually, when the kids have filed out and those previously working on preparations are taking a break, he suggests they head out for lunch, and Clarke agrees. She folds the sheet that previously lay beneath them while he gathers their things, and stride in stride they begin to head home to put their belongings away.

Halfway there, Clarke spots Octavia, who turns right as the two of them are walking by.

“Bellamy,” she calls, and he looks over, mouth falling open slightly, not so much in surprise as it is in hesitation, unsure of what to say. “I’ve been looking for you.” She takes a step closer, insisting that she needs to talk to him. Clarke can see him stiffen, her hand coming to rest on his arm.

“Octavia-”

“Cut the crap, Bell. Every time I try to talk to you, you run off.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I _want_ to talk to you, I do. Trust me. I just need it to be on my terms.” Taking a breath, he adds, “On my time.”

Octavia, to no surprise, argues against his words. They’re not in the best place, Clarke knows, but like Bellamy told her before, where they’re at is okay. Better than before, really, all things considered. Turning to her, he whispers an, “I’ll meet you there,” and after taking the sheet from her grasp, is gone. He needs a moment alone, and she can give him that.

As she watches him walk away, she can feel Octavia’s stare, heavy and unrelenting. “He needs time,” she reiterates.

“Easy for you to say, Clarke. Even when he doesn’t feel like talking to you, he can never seem to stay away for long.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” she shrugs, unable to understand what it is that Octavia wants from her. “Considering how long it took you to treat him like a human, much less your brother, you should understand where he’s coming from. Give him room to breathe. He loves you and has _always_ loved you, even when you haven’t deserved it. The least you could do is give him what he’s asking.”

Deep down, Clarke isn’t so sure that Octavia deserves his love, but then again she isn’t so sure she, herself, is deserving of it either. She wants to be deserving of his love, though, is trying her best to be.

Octavia straightens, then, defeated, “Maybe you’re right,” and before long, she’s walking away, shoulders straightened and a sudden skip in her step that wasn’t there previously. Clarke lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and sets off to find Bellamy.

Rather than eating lunch in the dining hall, since it’s nearly over, Clarke checks on Madi before she and Bellamy smuggle their lunches out and away from the crowd, finding themselves in the place they seem to more often than not. The rest of the evening is spent sitting against their tree with his head resting in her lap as she plays with his hair, and finds that it’s her turn to tell him stories although she isn’t so sure she knows any quite as good as his, and certainly isn’t nearly as talented as him when it comes to telling them.

Clarke looks down at him, his eyes resting shut as she scratches at his scalp. Again, feeling a bit like a broken record, she tells him, “I’m proud of you, you know.”

He sits up, slow. “What for?”

“Just… for everything.”

Despite him hearing this from her earlier on, she can see that his eyes are glistening with tears. He’s had a lifetime filled with war and chaos, an ungrateful sister and relentless devotion to those around him, and he deserves to be told that someone is proud of him. He deserves to feel loved. She pats her lap, letting him know it’s okay to lie down once again. He does.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I ate those purple berries that made me hallucinate for two days straight?” she asks as he resituates himself, wiggling a little once he’s comfortable.

“No, I don’t think you have,” he frowns, and then, mouth tilting up on side, “You hallucinate me or something?” Except, she thinks the hallucinations are a story for another time and shakes her head, telling him to be quiet so she can tell the story she originally intended. When she’s done, they pack up and head home, calling it a night. Madi greets them at the door, hugging both of them, and asks Bellamy to play chess with her as he unlaces his boots.

He does, and though Madi doesn’t want to, Clarke lets her know that it’s time for bed once she starts to rub her eyes, yawning every few minutes despite claiming that she isn’t tired.

“You tired, too?” she asks as Bellamy stifles a yawn of his own against a closed fist. “You can stay again, you know.”

“I was planning to.” He gives her a tired smile, standing to make his way over to the couch. There rests a pillow she’s accepted she’s never getting back, and a blanket that’s barely enough to cover him but he still claims keeps him comfortably warm. “As long as it was okay with you, obviously.”

“Uh huh.”

“Goodnight, Clarke.”

She turns, bidding him a gentle goodnight of her own.

Most nights, he stays without there being a conversation about it, merely tucks himself in on the couch as Clarke prepares for bed. In the mornings, she wakes to hushed conversation and laughter between him and Madi as they pile berries on top of the oatmeal he’s just heated- when he has the means to- and it’s enough to make her heart squeeze.

For once, it feels as if things are beginning to fall into place, and she can’t find it in her to complain.

* * *

Madi’s hands are gentle against her scalp as she works to braid the top half of it back, her words moving quick enough that Clarke barely has time to think about them. “I still think you should wear the dress you wore to dinner when we first got to Sanctum,” the girl catches on a breath, and Clarke slows Madi as she admits, “I’m not a fan of dresses,” and really, it isn’t a lie.

“Plus,” she adds, knowing that Madi’s face has fallen at her revelation. “Most of the others aren’t dressing up either. I would look out of place.”

Instead, she settles for a loose white blouse she was able to catalog from Josephine’s wardrobe before they decided to relocate, deciding to take advantage of it despite feeling disgust at doing so, and a pair of pants arguably nicer than the ones usually adorning her body, lacking the stray strings and faded color. Madi doesn’t hide her disappointment, huffing a little in disappointment at the fact that Clarke hasn’t listened to her requests.

“Don’t give me that,” Clarke points, resisting the urge to smile. “Seeing as I’m the one wearing it all night, I think it’s my choice, not yours.”

“Fine,” Madi admits, then low, “You look nice.”

“Thank you,” she smiles, reaching out to ruffle the mess of brown hair on her head. Motioning to the crown of her own head, where her locks are braided neatly, and loose hair falls in waves nearly to her shoulders now, “I like to attribute it to your handiwork.”

Madi huffs, clearly unamused, but is unable to fully stifle her laugh. “Whatever you say, Clarke.”

Her nerves are alight as she walks out into the main room, hands trembling despite the rational part of her telling them to stay calm. There, Bellamy sits in the chair she’s otherwise come to view as his, ankles crossed. He’s ready, too, no longer wearing the black henley she’s become accustomed to seeing him in, but instead a shade of tan, reminiscent of the portion of their days on Earth spent fighting sadistic AIs and searching for salvation on a planet void of hope.

“Ready?”

His mouth opens, words failing to escape, and he quickly stands before clearing his throat. “You look, uh- you look nice,” and his voice is rough, deeper than it usually is, enough to send a chill down her spine. As they stand toe to toe, his finger reaches out to twist around a loose strand of hair. Thumb tracing against the curve of her jaw, he corrects himself, “Beautiful.”

Over his shoulder, Madi stands in the corner, a smirk playing on her lips. “She’s not even wearing anything _nice.”_

Clarke watches as the smile on his face grows, and with a playful roll of his eyes, he remarks, “My statement stands no matter what she’s wearing, Madi.” The heat rushes to her cheeks, and yet, she finds a feeling of sorrow within her at their banter, too.

She misses her mom, her dad. Everyone else she’s loved that the universe has thought fit to rip away from her grasp, and yet somehow, they’ve allowed her to keep Bellamy and Madi. Despite feeling as though it’s unfair, merely a disaster away from losing one or the both of them, there’s nothing in the world she’s more thankful for.

Pushing away her thoughts, she tells Bellamy, “You look nice, too,” and slips her fingers between his as they step outside.

“You want my jacket?” he asks when she shivers at a gust of wind, and she so desperately wants to take it, but stubbornly settles for, “No, you can keep it. I’m okay,” instead.

* * *

The crowd is loud, nearly overflowing, the lights too bright. They flash with color in a way that reminds Clarke of the dance all those months ago in Sanctum, causing her to stiffen until Bellamy gives her hand a squeeze, able to read her too well. His touch, always reassuring, should be enough to drive the harrowing thoughts away, but it isn’t, and with each beat of the music comes another wave of dread.

They see the others as they round a corner and Murphy raises a hand, trying to gain their attention. “Look who finally made it,” he drawls as they come near, and those around him follow suit, a cacophony of greetings welcoming them. Hope sparks within Clarke at the smile Raven sends her way, and for once, she can almost say she feels like one of them until they insist Bellamy come with them, Murphy pulling him along.

“I don’t know, guys,” he tries. “Clarke, do you-” he’s drowned out by the noises around them, the insistence of his friends. With a sorrowful look back at her and a mouthed, “Stay right there,” he allows himself to be pulled with them, and she’s left in the crowd, alone.

Embarrassed and upset, tears brim at her eyes. The others were okay, nice to her even. She should feel good, happy, and yet, she feels nothing but sinking disappointment at the fact that they don’t hate her anymore, and yet they don’t care enough to consider her one of them, either.

It’s too much.

The others, the party. Russell’s voice taunts her, the memory of him standing above her while she lay on the table, paralyzed. Before she knows it, she finds herself turning around, pushing her way through the crowd to find the door. Her chest feels tight as she grasps at it, and something within her snaps, and suddenly she’s crying.

Pain, fear, grief.

It begins to pile like a heavyweight on top of her, and she curls up, knees to her chest. Loud, unrelenting sobs begin to pour out of her, and all her mind can do is tell her to stop, to pull herself together, but she can’t. It’s difficult to breathe, and the ground is cold, and she can’t seem to do anything but succumb to the pain until she feels the warmth of a jacket being placed over her shoulders and someone settling in behind her, pulling her into them.

Without looking, she can tell it’s Bellamy, and relaxes into his touch, tries to breathe.

Rough, unintelligible, she tries to explain, “I always think things are getting better.” She takes a shaky breath, knows that she probably isn’t making any sense to him. “I always think things are better, and there’s so much good- _you’re_ good- in my life, and then somewhere along the way I fuck up, or I’m reminded of all of the fucked up parts, and it’s too much,” she cries. “I don’t deserve any of it.”

“Shh,” he whispers, “It’s okay, Clarke, you-”

“And the worst part is that no matter what I do, I’ll never deserve you, either.”

In the silence, all she can hear is her harsh breathing and the beating of her heart, muffled music coming from inside.

“I know it’s not much,” he starts, slow, “and it probably doesn’t help to hear this, but you have me, Clarke.” His voice is thick with emotion, as if he’s holding back tears of his own, and she closes her eyes. “I’ll always be here, I’m not going anywhere.” She shakes her head, crying harder against the fabric of his shirt.

He only pulls her closer, running a hand down her hair as she muffles her cries into his shoulder.

When she’s calm and the tears have slowed enough that her face is mostly dry from the ones most recently shed, he eases them both upright, slings an arm around her shoulders, and they head home. Madi’s already in bed by the time they get there, and in continuation of their unspoken agreement, he stays again.

This time, though, it’s different. He makes sure she’s comfortable, tucked into bed before he takes his place on the couch, and she allows the weight of the night to carry her into sleep without struggle, but the nightmares are soon to greet her.

She startles in the middle of the night to Bellamy shaking her, throat sore and body covered in sweat as he murmurs, “Everything’s okay, Clarke. I’m right here. None of it was real, I’m right here. You’re okay.” Her breath is coming in heavy pants, and quickly, her eyes adjust to the darkness surrounding them. She nods, relaxing into his embrace as she lays back down.

“You okay?”

Hesitant, she tells him, “I am now, yeah.”

“What was it about?” he asks, and quickly adds, “If you don’t mind telling me.”

“The primes,” she swallows. “What could’ve happened again if we hadn’t…”

“I wouldn’t have let anything else happen to you, I shouldn’t have let anything happen the first time. If I’d paid more attention, it would have never happened in the first place.”

“Hey, no. None of that.” Bellamy looks over, brow raised at her tone. _“None_ of that was your fault. If it hadn’t happened at the dance, it would have happened somewhere else. They’d have made sure of it.”

He doesn’t say anything else, merely holds her, and before long, her eyelids begin to droop once again, the beginnings of sleep pulling her under. She feels the bed dip as he turns to go, and in her half-conscious state, before he can get too far, she pulls him closer until he’s bent over her as he stands at the bedside. “Stay,” she says, not only meaning tonight, but every night.

Rough, he asks, “What?”

Clarke turns over to face him, wide awake now, and pleads, desperate, “Stay here tonight. Every night,” even though she knows he hasn’t slept elsewhere in weeks. “Don’t ever leave.”

_“Clarke-”_

“This can be your home, too. _Our_ home.” It’s silly, not to mention selfish of her, she realizes, to demand he stays if he doesn’t wish to. Taking a deep breath, she adds, “Or, I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I’m a lot happier when you’re here, and so is Madi, and I really want you to stay. _Here._ With me.”

After a moment in which her stomach lurches with fear, he crawls into bed next to her, cautious, and pulls her body into his. “I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Not unless you tell me to, and probably not even then.”

_It doesn’t take long for her to fall asleep then, and when she does, it’s peaceful._

* * *

In the evenings, they’ve taken to playing chess, a far cry from the talk of future missions and plans for survival. Usually they reserve it for once Madi’s already gone to bed, but on some nights, they include her, too. She likes to sit on Bellamy’s side, lean over and whisper what move he should make next, citing that he’s the one in need of help whenever Clarke feigns disappointment.

(She can’t help but think of Wells, of the matches they played over the years, too many to count.)

Clarke bites back a smile when Bellamy wins, pumping his fist once in victory.

“Wait until Madi hears that I _can_ beat you without her.”

“She knows you can, Bellamy, she just likes playing on your team better.”

“Can’t imagine why,” he says, weighted.

“I can.”

Clarke begins to pack away the remaining pieces, his hand brushing hers when he reaches for the board.

“It’s getting late.”

“Late enough,” he agrees. “We should probably try to get some sleep.”

_“Try_ being the operative word.”

Beginning to walk towards the bedroom, she stops, confused, when she hears a low, “‘Night, Clarke,” and realizes he isn’t behind her. Turning, she finds that he’s pulling out that godforsaken throw, preparing for sleep on the couch yet again, and pushes down the hurt she feels at the realization that maybe he had misunderstood her the night before. Or that maybe he hadn’t misunderstood her, but simply didn’t want what she did.

“You coming?” she asks, meekly, afraid to hear the answer he’ll give.

He halts, turning to look at her. An air of hesitancy to his tone, “I know what you said last night, but I wasn’t sure if that’s what you still wanted.”

How could it _not_ be?

As if it’s obvious, “When I said I wanted you to stay, I didn’t just mean last night.”

He tilts his head, eyes soft as the meaning of her words sets in. “I will.” He drops the fabric from his hands, beginning to bridge the space between them. “I’ll stay.” Her fingers wrap around his, and in what feels like a new beginning, a shift in their relationship, she leads him to the bedroom. Or, their bedroom now, she supposes.

As her head hits the pillow and she begins to turn over, she feels the bed dip behind her, small enough that his heat penetrates through the fabric of her shirt, leaving her feeling vulnerable. Neither of them move. An unspoken agreement between them, the area of the bed beneath them they don’t dare to touch.

Until it’s suddenly too much and he’s there, but not close enough, and Clarke scoots back, slow, as if not to scare him off, until his arm is a vice around her waist and it’s no longer a struggle to breathe as his lips press once, twice into the hair at the back of her head.

“Tell me a story, Bell,” she breathes, despite knowing it won’t be long before she succumbs to sleep’s call.

“What one?”

“You can choose this time.”

She isn’t actually interested in hearing what story he has to tell, but listens instead to the comforting sound of his voice, enough to lull her to sleep before long.

It becomes a routine, him murmuring mythological tales she knows were passed down from his mother as an aid for her to sleep. Eventually, when his boots are a staple in front of the door and the blade he uses to shave with sits in a permanent spot on the dresser that’s really nothing but a glamorized crate; when his smell lingers on the bed sheets, on her own body when he isn’t around; when they begin to bicker like an old married couple; despite her insistence that he doesn’t need to, he continues to hold her, to recall stories from the depths of his mind in hopes that it leaves her without terrors in the night.

It’s selfish of her to want more than what he’s giving her, more than what they have. He’s her partner in every way except the one in which she really wants him to be, and still she isn’t sure how to approach that with him, such a fragile thing, isn’t sure if he wants the same.

Yet, the thought of it isn’t so scary these days, and that in itself is frightening enough.

* * *

“We should take a break.”

A sudden clearing in the trees leads to the familiar lake, boots digging into the sand beneath them. There’s no need for the two of them to go scouting as frequently as they do, not anymore, but Bellamy doesn’t approach the topic of stopping, so neither does she.

“No complaints here, Mr. _Let’s Take the Long Way.”_

“The scenic route is always better, Clarke,” he argues, and she can’t say she disagrees.

They settle in a spot near the sand, and she begins to pull out what little food they thought to pack, a few pieces of fruit and a protein bar he splits in half for them to share. The humidity is harsh, some of the worst they’ve encountered thus far, clothes sticking uncomfortably to their skin. They fan themselves with their hands, trying to find some semblance of wind, and when she notices a bead of sweat rolling down his temple, she turns her hand to fan him, too.

“Very funny.”

“I’m not being funny,” she smiles. “You looked hot. I thought you could use the help.”

He smirks, hand ceasing its movements. “Hot, huh?”

She nearly chokes on the berry she’s just swallowed, takes a drink from her canteen before leaning in to finish off the near tasteless bar in her hand as she mumbles, “You know what I meant.”

Bellamy merely laughs, and they finish off the rest of their food in silence, the sound of the water and animals in the distance making up for the lack of conversation. When he speaks again, it isn’t built on innuendos or humor, but instead regret, pain.

“Do you think I’ve been a bad brother?” Slow, considering, “She’s not my responsibility, I know that, but I get her back after almost losing her for good and then all but cut her out completely.” He swallows before asking, instead, “Am I a bad person?”

Clarke shakes her head without hesitation, tries to lighten the situation by joking, “I might be a little biased,” she starts, uncrossing her legs to face him. “but you’re far from a bad brother, and even further from being a bad person, Bellamy.” He softens at that, but she knows this is one of those moments in which self-loathing is running rampant through his head, unavoidable, so she adds, “Whether you believe it or not, you’re _good._ A good brother, a good person. The best person, but like I said, I might be biased,” she shrugs.

He sighs, shaking his head. “I think, based on that, you have to be biased.”

“I don’t know,” she says, leaning her head against his shoulder. “Maybe you’re really just that great.”

He leans his head on top of hers, arm wrapping around her shoulders as he murmurs, “You’re pretty great, too.”

“You’re one of the only ones that seem to think so.”

“Maybe everyone else should follow my lead, then.”

When the heat becomes unbearable and the suns are at their peak, Bellamy picks his head up from hers, looking out at the body of water in front of them as it glistens in the light. She glances up to find him grinning down at her, and knows what he’s about to say surely can’t be any good.

“We should go for a swim.”

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, Bell. We should probably just head back home,” she rationalizes. Hands reaching down to grip at hers, she allows him to pull her into a standing position as he teases, “Oh, c’mon, we deserve to have fun for once.” Unsure of whether he’s convinced her, “We don’t have to stay in for long.”

“Fine,” she relents. His smile merely grows wider and his hand reaches down to pull his shirt off, her heart hammering at the realization that she’ll have to do the same. She still isn’t sure it’s a good idea, tries and mostly fails to devoid her gaze as he unbuckles his belt.

“I’ll, uh-” he gestures aimlessly before looking away, but she knows what he means. Swallowing down her insecurities, she kicks off her boots and makes work by pulling off her own shirt and pants, leaving her in her faded black bra and underwear, covered but feeling much more bare than so.

“Ready?” she asks.

“As I’ll ever be.”

They both gasp at the feel of the water as they step into it, but with a glance and a nod, they continue forward, hands clasped together. Once waist deep, she stops, deciding she’s gone far enough, but he doesn’t seem to agree, continuing forward.

“I’m good here.”

“Surely you’re not,” he deadpans. “Come with me,” and she does, swimming over to him with a smile. “That’s better.” He reaches for her, and she moves in closer. “Now you-”

His eyes shut at the wave of water she sends his way, and with a laugh, she tries to swim in the other direction, but he doesn’t let her. “Sorry?”

“You’ll _be_ sorry, yeah.”

She squeals when he reaches her, pausing before he picks her up and tosses her back down into the water. It stings when she lands, but she can’t bring herself to care once she comes back up for air and sees him laughing, too, smiling brighter than she’s ever seen him. The waters dips gently around them as she swims up to him.

Her arms lock around his shoulders, easy, his hands leaving a trail of heat across the skin of her waist. It feels impossible to breathe, her eyes falling shut as he leans his forehead against her own. Time slows as they begin to lean in, and she thinks that this is it, that this is what everything has led them to, but suddenly there’s a pit of fear in her stomach at the thought of taking that final step.

Stupidly, she uses the leverage she has against his shoulders to dunk him under the water.

The few seconds alone are used to gather herself, and once he comes back up,

she launches herself at him again, their laughter echoing throughout the valley they’ve found themselves in.

“You should’ve covered up the way I told you to,” he tells her that evening as they arrive home, both tired and Clarke’s skin tinted a bright red, painful to the touch.

“It was too hot,” she waves him off. “You didn’t cover up much, either.”

“I also don’t burn the way that you do,” and she laughs despite knowing he’s right.

* * *

He surprises her later as they lay in bed, asking, “Do you think love is in the cards for us?” Clarke swallows past the lump in her throat as she considers his words, unsure of the way in which he’s referring to them. “After all that we’ve done, the pain that we’ve caused. Do you think we deserve it?”

She mulls it over, concluding, “Maybe love isn’t about what we deserve.”

“Yeah,” he laments. “I guess you’re right.”

Clarke wouldn’t say she’s an overly emotional person, wouldn’t call herself irrational or too quick to act. Yet, looking at him now, hair mussed from running his hands through it too many times, freckles contrasting against his skin, wondering if he’s deserving of love; she’s overcome with all that she feels for him.

Unlike the loud, passionate confession she’s always imagined, eyes brimming with tears, she places a hand against his cheek, turning his head towards her, and allows the words to tumble out in a mess of insecurities and emotions pent up for far too long.

“I love you, Bellamy,” she declares, ever so soft yet deafening in the quiet of the room. His thumb brushes away a tear, gentle against the sensitive skin and despite the dampness she can see in his own eyes he stays quiet as she continues, desperate, “You don’t have to say anything, I don’t want you to feel like you do. I’ve just,” she takes a shaky breath, “I love you, so much, and I have for _so_ long. I just needed to say it, needed you to know because we have the shittiest luck and the last thing I want-”

“I love you, too.”

He says it with such ease that she thinks he’s misunderstood, and scrambles to correct him, to tell him, “No, you don’t- you don’t get it. I’m _in_ love with you, Bellamy.”

“Clarke,” he begs, hand cradling her jaw. “I’m in love with you, too,” and she stares at him, dumbfounded, until he smiles and suddenly he’s leaning in, and before she can overthink it, he’s kissing her.

_Really_ kissing her, in a way that leaves her heart lurching, her hands roaming the expanse of his back, gripping the hair at the nape of his neck. There’s no hurry, no desperation in the way his lips move against her own; and despite what she always thought would happen, fireworks don’t go off in the night sky above, nor are there any explosions in the distance.

It’s soft, easy in the way that love for her never has been, an element of mess always having played at the edges. With him, there is no mess, no urgency. It’s just the two of them, as if they have all the time in the world.

It's the way love should be.

* * *

Nothing changes, really.

They still eat breakfast together each morning, dinner each night. They play chess with Madi and, once they’re tired, pack it away and go to bed, only now they hold each other closer than before, murmuring, “I love you,” against the skin of each other’s neck before sleep. Except, despite the similarities between now and before, everything _feels_ different knowing that he loves her, that she’s able to openly love him without worry or fear of him not feeling the same.

There’s always that voice in the back of her mind, taunting, letting her know that their time together is fleeting, that it’s bound to end. That penance for all she’s done is waiting still, but for once she refuses to allow herself to sink into it, especially with the knowledge that he’s leaving soon, even if it is only a short trip north that she knows is necessary.

She doesn’t want him to go, but knows it wouldn’t be right to tell him such, to keep him from going when he’s already planned to.

“I’ll be okay.”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean I won’t worry.” His hand rubs circles against her back, soothing, and she curls in closer to him, pressing a kiss to his chest through the thin shirt covering it.

Affectionately patting his chest, she stands, stretching, and mentions heading to the shower. Hesitant, “You could join me?”

“Clarke-”

“Nothing has to happen, it’s just a shower,” she’s quick to add, unsure of if she’s saying so to reassure him or herself more.

Except, it’s not just a shower. Not really.

They walk there hand in hand, and she’s sure she’s convinced herself it was the right choice until it’s time to undress, and suddenly she’s nervous, shaking hands grabbing at her jacket.

“Hey,” he steps closer, sensing her reservations. “I can head back if you want me to.”

“I don’t want you to.”

Slowly, he reaches for where her hands grasp at the fabric, eyes meeting hers as if asking for permission. When she nods, he lowers it from her shoulders, fingers grazing her skin. Lips press against the juncture of her shoulder, lingering, as he tosses it away and reaches for her shirt next, shifting it upwards and off, his mouth leaving a burning trail across her skin in its wake.

She runs a hand down his chest, struggles momentarily with his belt before successfully unbuckling it and pushing his pants down his thighs.

He washes her hair, fingers scratching against her scalp as he rinses it, before she pushes him under the spray and he bends his head down, allowing her to do the same. The air around them is charged, thick with steam from the water, but still nothing happens.

They help wash each other off, smiling against each other’s mouths when she leans up to kiss him and they get lost in it for a moment too long before they pull apart and he wraps his arms around her.

The water runs cold as they hold each other, but they can’t bring themselves to mind.

In the morning, she wakes to a kiss against her forehead, the tip of her nose. “I love you,” a kiss to her lips. “I’ll be back before you know it, and I’ll call when I can. Try not to worry.”

“I love you, too.” Another kiss, lingering this time. “Don’t do anything heroic.”

“I’ll try not to.”

Yet, despite his reassurances, as the days pass by, she still finds herself worrying. She knows that he isn’t that far away, not really, knows that he has others with him that are more than capable of watching his back.

Each time she sees Clarke getting too far into her head, worry and doubt immobilizing her, Madi tries to assure her that he’s okay, and as much as Clarke tries to convince herself of that, it never fully works, an ache filling her chest in his absence.

The night Bellamy comes home, she’s in bed, lying on his side. Finds it’s more comfortable than her own, and yet she still can’t sleep. Footsteps echo through the hallway outside, and at first it’s easy to convince herself it’s her mind playing tricks, until the door opens and she rolls over, any remaining breath escaping her at the sight of him. She doesn’t move, finds herself just as frozen as him, eyes wide.

Slowly, she stands, making her way over to him. Rough, he whispers, “Told you I’d come back,” and she can’t help it, all but launches herself at him, arms pulling him to her in a frenzy.

When she pulls back, it isn’t to move far, instead cradling his face between her hands and pulling his mouth down to meet her own, finding him to be just as eager. One of his hands moves to the small of her back, pulling her against him as his thumb rubs against the curve of her jaw, tilting her head, and she opens her mouth under his.

He breaks away, breathing heavy, to whisper, “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.”

This time, his lips are so soft against her own she can’t be entirely sure he’s not a figment of her imagination until he all but crushes her to him, his touch overwhelming. “I love you,” she gasps, head tilted back as his lips begin to work at her neck, sucking at the sensitive skin there.

They’ve been separated so many times, the universe driving a wedge between them no matter how hard they tried to avoid her interference, and Clarke thinks she’ll be damned if she lets it happen again.

His hands flirt with the hem of her shirt, and she reaches down, aids him in pulling it up and off until she’s bare in front of him, and his mouth is searing against her skin as he trails downwards, sinking to his knees. Presses a kiss to her stomach before leaning his head against it, reminiscent of the hug they shared not long ago. Clarke runs her fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp.

She draws him upwards, caresses his jaw before pulling him in for another kiss, and by the time they’re situated, bodies flush from head to toe, Bellamy’s hand runs down the curve of her thigh, positioning it higher against him. Her thumb runs across his cheekbone, making him stop to look at her.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she breathes.

He smiles, nose brushing against hers before he leans down to catch her lips with his own, and her heart feels like it might burst.

“Good thing you’ll never have to find out, then.”

This time, when he kisses her, his hand reaches for hers, fingers intertwined against the pillow beneath her head, and then he’s pushing into her, slow, until they’re moving together and she can’t manage to form any thoughts outside of him. The sheets stick to her back as his hands trail across her skin, voice rough in her ear, and all she can think about is how _good_ he feels, and how much she loves him, how she doesn’t think he could possibly be any more perfect than he is.

She pulls Bellamy’s mouth back to her own as he eventually speeds up, legs clenching tighter around him, and soon enough they’re rolling over, laughter against each other’s mouths causing them to break apart. It takes a bit for them to get their rhythm back, but Clarke doesn’t mind, her hand on his chest as she rolls her hips into his until he gets tired of her being too far away and pulls her down into a kiss.

His hand braces itself against her lower back as he begins to thrust up into her, and then he’s swallowing her gasps as she comes, and moments later, she’s returning the favor.

She lays her head against his chest as they come down, listening to his heartbeat.

* * *

Their compound continues to grow over time, and with it, so does Clarke’s relationship with Bellamy, and Madi, too. They decide to take her on their next scouting trip, stopping when she finds a field of flowers that she insists on inspecting closer. They sit on the edge of the hillside, watching her off in the short distance, crouching down to look at one of the plants she’s found.

Their hands sit intertwined in his lap, her head against his shoulder.

“I miss my parents.”

“I miss my mom, too.”

She lifts her head. “Is it silly of me to say that, sometimes... being happy hurts, knowing that I’m able to be without them here?”

“Yeah,” he laments. “But I think that’s natural, that even though we don’t want to, there’ll be times we feel that way no matter what.” Determined, “I think we’ll be okay, though.”

Somehow, Clarke knows that they will be.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy,” she admits, and he simply smiles.

“Clarke, Bellamy, come here!” Madi calls, and he laughs, looking over at her before pushing himself upwards and holding out a hand to help her do the same. She shakes her head.

“You go ahead, I’ll catch up.”

He does, but not without pressing a kiss to the back of her hand before doing so. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Clarke nods, smiling, but doesn’t feel the need to follow, not yet. Instead, she sits back and watches as the two people she loves most in the world laugh together, and suddenly she can’t find it within herself to feel anything other than happiness for the first time in what feels like forever.

Bellamy calls her over a little while later, glee in his voice as he chases Madi through the overgrowth surrounding them.

This time, she goes.

* * *

The village is bustling around her as she reaches into her bag for the half-stale piece of bread she knows is there, biting her cheek to keep from smiling as she sets out to look for Bellamy. Only, it isn’t really looking if she already knows where he is, feet carrying her in an all too familiar direction.

She finds him sitting against their tree, book in hand.

“You hungry?” she asks.

“Famished.”

They share a gentle smile, and for a moment, she feels overwhelmed with love. Nodding, she takes a seat in the dirt next to him, their thighs pressed together as she leans in to press her lips to his, short and sweet. She halves the bread, making sure that it’s equal before he takes one half from her grasp and pops it into his mouth.

The peace they have is tentative still, uncertainty always lying ahead. Clarke doesn’t know what comes next, or how long this will last, but hopes beyond hope that everything doesn’t go to Hell too soon. It’s selfish, maybe, hoping for such for her own sake, but for once, she can’t bring herself to care. Signaling the end of another day, the sun begins to set yet again, but she can’t seem to see it as anything other than a new beginning.

Rather than going from day to day focused only on surviving and the means to get from one point to another, as they sit side by side, they vow to do what life was intended for.

They live.

* * *

* * *

_“I love you. I want us both to eat well.” -Christopher Citro_

**Author's Note:**

> long time, no see huh? 
> 
> life got crazy, and is still crazy but at least there's added time for me to sit at home and write, meaning I plan to post more as well as update some WIPs that are long overdue for an update in the coming weeks. btw thank you mars for making the moodboard and helping whenever I would get stuck, as you always seem to <3
> 
> thoughts? comments and kudos are appreciated as always!


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